by Tracy Rees
‘Thank you. Can you tell me, Mr Crumm – I find myself in a wonder – how she has managed this . . . this . . .?’
‘Miss Snow, do you agree that this is no conversation for business hours? I realize I am a stranger, but would it be very awkward if I were to invite you to dine at my home this evening? My daughter Kate will be there, and her young sprig of a son, Henry. We should be very glad to have you.’
I am sure some etiquette prohibits it, but loneliness compels more powerfully than convention. I can hardly contain myself for happiness, and fear I might cry in front of this most sympathetic of gentlemen.
‘I should be delighted, Mr Crumm. I have no friends in the city, and to meet someone who knew Aurelia . . . well, I cannot thank you enough.’
He will close the shop in an hour, he tells me, and asks if I would care to wait in his office. ‘Perhaps you might pass the time reading your new acquisition.’ He smiles. ‘I am sure you are impatient to do so.’
I am lost for words as he drags an armchair over to a lacklustre fire, which he stokes briskly to a blaze. He takes my bonnet and cloak and asks me to watch the shop for a moment so that he can run next door and buy coffee for us both. Within moments all my needs are catered for; I have my letter and solitude to read it. I am drying out by a fire so hot it makes me shiver and I have a steaming drink to sip. I have the prospect of company this evening and, yes, privacy to weep a little as the tensions and discomfort of the last few days fall away.
I draw the letter from my pocket. It is smooth and clean compared with the first letter, now so considerably perused and toted about (not to mention entirely crumpled). I shift the chair back a little – with my luck, all I need is to drop the precious pages in the fire!
Yet I hesitate, and think with dread how close I came to giving up, losing the trail. What if this letter, too, is impossibly cryptic? What if I am to remain in London or go somewhere even worse? What if I am to go abroad? I swallow, and slip my finger under the flap. Knowing Aurelia as I do, or rather, realizing I do not know her half so well as I thought I did, I suspect history is about to rewrite itself, in flowing violet ink.
My treasured Amy,
You have done it! You have followed the trail and found your way to the next instruction. Congratulations, my little bird, you are quite as clever as I!
Did it take you long to find your way, dearest? How utterly, utterly frustrating that after plotting my most ingenious trail ever I can never discuss it with you, never hear what your adventures have been. I could cry, my dear, for rage at all that I will miss.
I am sorry if this first challenge has been difficult for you, Amy. London is not the easiest place and I know that you have not been situated to enjoy it, alone as you are. But it was essential that the hardest part came first. Surely no one else could have found this letter?
You are to go to the country next, little dove, and not so very far, merely to Twickenham, as I did before you. You will stay with my friends there. Dear people! Hush now. I know what you are thinking:
‘But I do not know them! What if it is inconvenient? How can I appear on their doorstep and invite myself in, a total stranger?’
I lay down the paper and look around the room. That is exactly what I was thinking.
Be reassured, small sister, there is NOTHING about which you need fret. The idea that you should stay in their home was all theirs, not my suggestion at all. The instant you say your name you will be welcomed to the bosom, dearest, I promise.
I see I am nearly at the foot of the page and it seems an apposite moment to pause and ask you one very important favour, dearest. It may even be the most important thing you do for me in this whole adventure. Before you turn the page, promise you will do this one small thing for me . . .
‘I promise, Aurelia,’ I sigh. Of course she knew I would. I turn the page and am surprised to read:
Burn your clothes, dearest, I beseech you. No, I do not draw inspiration from the native peoples of hot climes. (Would that I were there! Any clime warmer than Surrey in February would suffice!) I do not suggest you go naked. The world, my dear, is not ready for that. But you know it has long affronted my affection for you to see you clad as you are. Your appearance will not be your priority because of your unnatural lack of vanity. You will say you are in mourning and let that be your excuse to wander the world in hideous blacks and greys indefinitely if I do not take decisive action!
Soon you will be indulged as I could not indulge you when we were together. Think how overjoyed I shall be when I squint down at you from my celestial chaise longue, where I am certainly consuming candied peel at a fair old rate, sipping champagne and reading the works of Mr Dickens (I am also attended by three or four extremely handsome swains, do not doubt it).
I do not.
There is another reason I hasten to address your sartorial identity. My dear, dressed as you are, you scream to the world, ‘Unfortunate!’ You are the poor relation, the humblest of companions, the merely tolerated. And so it was at Hatville. But no more. You would attract the wrong sort of attention dressed thus in the wider world. You must leave that identity behind.
So, once you reach Twickenham, you will be suitably furnished – no effort will be required of your good self. Please do not hang onto those old rags ‘just in case’. I assure you earnestly there will never be any case in which you will need to dress thus ever again.
Finally, Amy, I don’t know what I had imagined in my fantastic conjurings for my time in London but we were not so very wild after all. Mrs Bolton and I dined, we went to the theatre, we visited Mudie’s and the London Library and the British Museum. In short, nothing that would not have shone the brighter for sharing it with you. I wish I had not left you behind.
I suppose I had nurtured a fond hope that I would do something shocking, you see – I was not thinking straight when I left. My parents . . .
But no, I cannot tell you at this delicate stage. ’Tis yet too soon. What if someone else should read this, not you? I cannot see how, but what if I have overlooked something? I must keep my secrets a little longer yet.
Forgive me, small sister, if I close here and leave you none the wiser. My comfort cannot be in unburdening myself just yet. My comfort must come instead from knowing that you will soon be safe in Twickenham. It makes me happy to imagine you there.
Do you miss me still? Selfish to the last, I hope so, and yet I hope that is not the whole of it for you. I want you to relish Twickenham, Amy. Be happy! Find hope!
With greatest love from your devoted
AV
I read the letter three times through, then sit quietly for a long while, staring into the crackling flames.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Albert Crumm’s house is but a short walk from the shop. The rain having eased to an uncommitted drizzle, we are glad of the fresh air.
His daughter Kate is as cheerful and altogether welcoming as I could have imagined. However, she has contracted the cold which I have also suffered so, after making my acquaintance, she begs to be excused and takes herself to bed with a weak broth. It offers the chance to talk alone with Albert before dinner. Henry the Sprig, he tells me, will be home for dinner as surely as a dog.
We settle in a dark drawing room. Central London accommodations, he apologizes, are not overly spacious and the house is old and sparing on windows. Albert rings for another coffee; he is a great addict, he confides cheerfully. I choose hot milk with nutmeg; I have trouble enough sleeping as it is.
‘Please tell me about Aurelia,’ I beg. ‘I miss her so much and this trail of letters mystifies me entirely. When did you meet her? How well did you know her? Above all, when and how did she arrange for a letter to be hidden in your shop?’
‘So much to tell you,’ Albert nods, ordering his thoughts. ‘But I must only talk until Henry comes. He’s a very good boy but Miss Vennaway impressed upon me the need for absolute secrecy.’
‘She has said the same to me. It is a relief to talk fre
ely even for five minutes. I am ill-practised at concealment and I feel I am doing a very poor job of it.’
‘You need an official story, Miss Snow. It would make your life easier. Now let me see. I first met Miss Vennaway in 1844, so that would be . . .’
‘Almost four years ago . . .’
‘Just so. We met at the theatre. Drury Lane. Terrible play, beautiful actress. I was with an acquaintance who just happened to be an acquaintance of Miss Vennaway’s friend Mrs Bolton. We were introduced, and were of one mind about the play. The following week, another play – exquisitely crafted, appallingly acted. We exchanged words again. They invited me to join their party for a post-theatre supper. Your friend was a great lover of literature, of course, so we had much to talk about.
‘Over the following month we met several times at various functions and struck up a friendship, new and fresh to be sure but like-minded and very warm. She honoured me with several confidences. I learned of her heart condition, of your unenviable position in her home and of the difficult relationship with her parents. She missed her dearest friend – you – sorely, and for that reason considered returning home early.’
‘She did?’
‘Indeed. But she dreaded seeing Lord and Lady V again. Miss Vennaway explained that they were excessive proud and cold. She told me too that she had been bullied, that was the word she used, into an unloving engagement prior to her departure. She said she could not return until she could forgive them. She left London in the April, I believe, and I have never seen her since.’
I frown. ‘Did you say, sir, that she was engaged before her departure? They did place an enormous amount of pressure on her to marry and marry well, ’tis true, but no engagement was ever finalized. And when her weak heart was discovered, that was all over.’
‘Do I have it wrong? No, I am quite, quite sure that is what she said.
‘Then, perhaps three years ago, I received a letter from Aurelia, asking me if I would grant her the greatest of favours – she did not specify what – and promise absolute confidentiality. I wrote back at once and said yes. She was an extraordinary young woman and her story, naturally, affected me very much.
‘She replied with effusive thanks – it was clear that this was, indeed, a matter of life and death for her – and enclosed the envelope you found this afternoon. She gave me minute instructions as to its placement and told me that you, Miss Snow, would be directed to it after her time. She said it was absolutely imperative that the letter never fall into the wrong hands and most especially that her parents never learn of its existence. I have been looking out for you ever since.’
The mention of an engagement still puzzles me but I can think about that later.
‘Thank you, Mr Crumm, for your kindness and for all you have done. I still do not know Aurelia’s reasons, but I know this meant everything to her, and so it does to me. I am so glad that we have met.’
‘I too, my dear, I too. Ah, I hear the door. Is that young Henry?’ he hollers suddenly.
‘Aye, Grandpa. I’m hungry fit to eat the carpet!’ comes a muffled voice from the hall.
I turn to meet young Henry, the sprig, the very good boy. I am expecting a slight and cheery lad of fourteen or so in a school cap. Imagine my surprise then when the doorframe is filled by a tall gentleman of well above six feet in height, with tumbling dark hair, matching eyes and a mischievous grin. Young Henry is quite grown up! Young Henry is . . . well, he is handsome. And due to his mother’s indisposition, it will be just the three of us this evening. I feel a blush rising in my cheeks; this will be an unaccustomed dinner indeed for me.
‘Henry, my lad!’ Albert springs up to embrace him with a casual but loving ruffle, such as one might give a spaniel.
‘Old one!’ Henry cuffs him gently and slings an arm around his shoulder. ‘Now where’s my dinner? Give it to me at once!’
‘You shan’t have it! No dinner for sprigs tonight!’
‘Then I shall go elsewhere immediately . . . Oh, hello! No I shan’t. Who’s this?’
‘That’ll teach you to bring some manners through the door with you. Henry, this is Miss Snow. She came to the shop today.’
‘Grandpa, must I forever be telling you? You can’t keep dragging the customers home! If they don’t want to buy anything, that’s their prerogative. You can’t keep them imprisoned here until they relent and buy a Wilkie Collins! Miss Snow, forgive the old one; he is out of his mind, d’you see? I’ll have you released upon a trice.’
I would love to respond to his jesting in kind, but in truth I cannot respond at all. I fear my admiration must be written all over my face and embarrassment robs me of the power of speech. I cannot look at him.
‘I saw you this afternoon, did I not?’ he continues. ‘You were going into my grandfather’s shop and I nearly mowed you down. I apologize again.’
I had not recognized him as the gentleman in the bookshop doorway. All I had seen then was a hat and a coat. I risk another quick glance at him, hoping he is less handsome at a second look. He is far handsomer. His smile could make my heart burst into flower – if it were not so dismayed. I have never entertained such surprising feelings towards Robin or Benjamin or any of the young villagers in Enderby. Given my own patent undesirability, I had flattered myself I was impervious to attraction. It seems that I am not.
‘Idiot child!’ Albert intervenes, and just as well, for I still cannot speak. ‘I’m trying to tell you. We had a mutual friend who has passed away. I invited Miss Snow to dinner so that we might remember our friend together and grow better acquainted.’
At once the laughing face grows serious. I see compassion in his eyes. He comes over to shake hands. Mine feels very small and icy in his. ‘Oh, Miss Snow, I am very sorry indeed for your loss. Welcome, and I am glad to meet you, though I wish the circumstances were otherwise. I see now it must be a recent loss.’ He nods at my mourning black.
I find my voice at last. ‘Thank you, Mr Crumm, you are most kind. Yes, it is recent, but it was long awaited and so not too . . . well, yes.’ I was about to say ‘not too great a shock’ but it isn’t true. The world without Aurelia is as astonishing to me as it ever was.
‘How terrible. Then I am even more pleased that you are here, for perhaps we can offer some solace and companionship. I’m sorry for you too, Grandpa. Was it someone I knew?’
‘No, Henry, and I had not seen her in a long while. Miss Snow brought me the news. But do not worry about me. Now, Miss Snow, youngster, shall we eat at last?’
‘I should say so!’ cries Henry, flinging off his overcoat. ‘And Miss Snow, I am not Mr Crumm. I am Mr Mead, but that sounds like my father, so please call me Henry. As you can see, we’re hardly formal in this house!’
Of course. Kate is Albert’s daughter and Henry is her son. I had been imagining a Henry Crumm, a crumb of a boy, but Henry Mead is . . . a different proposition altogether.
‘How silly of me! Of course, I met your mother earlier. Then you must call me Amy.’
‘Amy. A privilege. Where is my mother, anyway?’
‘She’s got a cold, Henry,’ says Albert, leading us down a dusty corridor to the dining room. ‘I lured Miss Snow here with the promise of sensible feminine company and now she’s stuck with only the two of us!’
Henry pulls a comic face – a mixture of sympathy and alarm – which makes me laugh aloud, much to my own surprise. I cannot remember the last time I laughed. He looks at me a little strangely when I do; my laughter must be rusty as a hinge on a gate.
He bounds up the stairs to see his mother, while Albert and I take our seats.
‘While he is gone, Miss Snow, naturally I do not ask that you tell me anything of Miss Vennaway’s letter, except this: does she wish me to help you in any further way?’
‘No, Mr Crumm. Your part in her plan is complete.’
‘Very well, then let me offer on my own account to help you, should you need it. If you remain in London and need somewhere to stay, my youngest dau
ghter, Annie, lives with me still, though she is gadding about somewhere tonight. I have many rooms spare, from all the fledglings who have left the nest, and I would mark it a very great honour to assist you.’
‘Oh, Mr Crumm, thank you. I should like nothing more, for since Aurelia died . . . well, you and your family are like balm to a wound. But Aurelia instructs me to go to . . . to move on . . . and I am afraid I must do so without delay.’
*
Despite the fact that I feel desperately shy at first, I proceed to enjoy one of the most pleasant evenings of my life. I feel giddy from relief that I have not, after all, failed in my quest at the first hurdle – and from the excellent wine that flows most generously.
Albert Crumm and his grandson are the most congenial of company – witty, warm and sensitive. Henry shows a courteous interest in their unusual guest, though he is a fine young gentleman of the world and I am but a small person who has lived a small life in a small village. He is studying to be a doctor, he tells me, but finds the curriculum unrelenting and insufferably dull. He is relieving the boredom by visiting his grandfather for two weeks. The break, apparently, is approved by his tutors. Like Henry, they hope that he will return to his studies refreshed and adjusted to the rigours of medicine.
‘Sprig,’ sniffs his grandfather, pretending to disapprove but clearly proud and adoring. ‘He’s not stupid, you see, Miss Snow, far from it, he just lacks application. Young and foolish, you see, young and foolish.’
‘Although I would not want to you think me so very foolish, Miss Snow,’ sighs Henry, resting his elbow on the table and sinking his chin into his hand. I find myself adopting the same posture as I listen intently. From being unable to look at him, I now find I have the opposite problem and cannot tear my eyes from his face. ‘It is simply that I am not cut out for books, at least, not those that are lavishly illustrated with detailed sections of corpses. But do you also think me profligate and flighty?’
